A great blue bowlful of snowballs overflowed on the polished table.  The shining black mantelpiece was heaped with roses and ferns.  Every shelf of the what-not held a sheaf of bluebells; the dark corners on either side of the grate were lighted up with jars full of glowing crimson peonies, and the grate itself was aflame with yellow poppies.  All this splendor and color, mingled with the sunshine falling through the honeysuckle vines at the windows in a leafy riot of dancing shadows over walls and floor, made of the usually dismal little room the veritable “bower” of Anne’s imagination, and even extorted a tribute of admiration from Marilla, who came in to criticize and remained to praise.

“Now, we must set the table,” said Anne, in the tone of a priestess about to perform some sacred rite in honor of a divinity.  “We’ll have a big vaseful of wild roses in the center and one single rose in front of everybody’s plate—­and a special bouquet of rosebuds only by Mrs. Morgan’s—­an allusion to ‘The Rosebud Garden’ you know.”

The table was set in the sitting room, with Marilla’s finest linen and the best china, glass, and silver.  You may be perfectly certain that every article placed on it was polished or scoured to the highest possible perfection of gloss and glitter.

Then the girls tripped out to the kitchen, which was filled with appetizing odors emanating from the oven, where the chickens were already sizzling splendidly.  Anne prepared the potatoes and Diana got the peas and beans ready.  Then, while Diana shut herself into the pantry to compound the lettuce salad, Anne, whose cheeks were already beginning to glow crimson, as much with excitement as from the heat of the fire, prepared the bread sauce for the chickens, minced her onions for the soup, and finally whipped the cream for her lemon pies.

And what about Davy all this time?  Was he redeeming his promise to be good?  He was, indeed.  To be sure, he insisted on remaining in the kitchen, for his curiosity wanted to see all that went on.  But as he sat quietly in a corner, busily engaged in untying the knots in a piece of herring net he had brought home from his last trip to the shore, nobody objected to this.

At half past eleven the lettuce salad was made, the golden circles of the pies were heaped with whipped cream, and everything was sizzling and bubbling that ought to sizzle and bubble.

“We’d better go and dress now,” said Anne, “for they may be here by twelve.  We must have dinner at sharp one, for the soup must be served as soon as it’s done.”

Serious indeed were the toilet rites presently performed in the east gable.  Anne peered anxiously at her nose and rejoiced to see that its freckles were not at all prominent, thanks either to the lemon juice or to the unusual flush on her cheeks.  When they were ready they looked quite as sweet and trim and girlish as ever did any of “Mrs. Morgan’s heroines.”